


Got 'til It's Gone

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anime References, Dating, Deadpan, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Flirting, Geeky, Humor, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Pop Culture, Porn, Rough Sex, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Slice of Life, Smut, Snark, Stiles is Horrible at Phone-Sex, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek have phone-sex while Stiles is away at college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got 'til It's Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this GIF-set](http://lovetherunning.tumblr.com/post/31320926590). Hot damn.

* * *

 

"So, um, what're you wearing right now?"

Derek pauses. The thing is, he can hear Stiles's heartbeat ratchet all the way up, even over the phone. "What do you think I'm wearing?" he says, as blandly as he can.

"Wha - how am I supposed to know? I'm not psychic!"

Derek hums. "What do I normally wear? Around this time?"

"Hm, lessee. You're an hour behind, and it'll be around midnight, so... you'll be, um. In your. Thing."

"Thing," Derek repeats, wondering if this might be the most inept attempt at phone-sex in the history of telecommunications.

"Your tank-top," Stiles mutters, vengefully. "Goddamn [Heero Yuy](http://myanimelist.net/character/99/Heero_Yuy). Wait, that makes me [Duo](http://gundam.wikia.com/wiki/Duo_Maxwell), doesn't it? And my Jeep is [Deathscythe](http://gundam.wikia.com/wiki/XXXG-01D_Gundam_Deathscythe)! Awesome."

"Stiles," sighs Derek, "this doesn't actually work if one person has no idea what the hell the other person is talking about."

"No, seriously, I gotta show you that anime. There's, like, this glowering guy with frowny eyebrows and a perpetual tank-top, see? And he has trouble making facial expressions, because he's this badass super-soldier that's been programmed to repress his emotions - "

"What," says Derek, flatly. It isn't even a question.

"Wait, wait! It gets better. And there's this dude on his, um, team, whatchamacallit, they're like pilots of these giant flying machines, I s'pose you'd call 'em a squadron? Anyway, this  _other_  guy is brilliant, very funny, always kidding around, kinda random, but he's hardcore, too, he knows how to kick ass. And they have loads of sexual tension. It's ridiculous."

 _You're ridiculous_ , Derek doesn't say, because he's above stating the obvious, and also because it'd be counter-productive. Given the situation. Stiles has just gotten distracted, like he often does, so it's up to Derek to put him back on-track. "What're you wearing?" he asks, and hears Stiles's breath stutter.

"Huh? Um. You know."

"I don't," says Derek, as patiently as he can. "That's why I'm  _asking you_."

"Whoa, there, cowboy, easy on the audible italics. Are you pissed off at me?"

"Stiles." Derek isn't gritting his teeth. He isn't. "What. Are. You. Wearing."

"And the full-stops! You're definitely mad at me. I dunno, Derek, doesn't seem like the right mood for phone-sex - "

"You started it," insists Derek, not caring that he resembles a stubborn eleven-year-old, "and you'll finish it."

"You sound like my dad when he tried to get me to eat my vegetables.  _You'll finish those, young man_. Heh."

"Did you just - "

" - compare you to my father? Whoops, guess I did. Sorry. That was, er. Weird. Of me. There's no sick Freudian reason for my attraction to you, I promise. My attraction's more about the, y'know. Frowny eyebrows. And the tank-tops."

"You're attracted to my eyebrows."

"More the way you use them. They're like weapons of mass destruction, man. Sorta scary, but sorta cool. Especially the V-shape. The V-shape of Doom, because that usually only happens when you're really pissed off and ready to wreck private property, and - "

"Stiles," Derek growls.

"Wow. You're pissed off _now_."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

Stiles's heartbeat spikes. "Maybe," he answers, and even though there's a smile in his voice, it's also... Softer. Huskier. "I miss being able to piss you off, up close and personal. I miss the wall-slamming."

"You kept complaining about the bruises."

"Yeah, well, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. In the wise words of Janet Jackson."

"If you start singing, I  _will_  throttle you."

"Mmm. Talk sadomasochistic to me, baby. Or just sadistic. Ha."

"Stiles - "

"I'm in my Mets T-shirt, by the way. The one you wore? I like to pretend it smells like you."

Derek closes his eyes. He can still feel the vein jumping in his temple. Why does every single thing with Stiles have to be so infuriating? "And? What else are you wearing?"

"My boxers. The black ones with the green skulls on them."

"I... don't require that level of detail."

"Really? How about the detail that I'm hard, then? D'you require  _that_?"

Derek inhales sharply.

"Oh, yeah. I like making you angry. Are your claws out, yet?"

Derek glances at them; retracts them. "No."

"You - you  _cheat_! I bet you totally popped them back in!"

"It's not that easy to affect me."

"Bullshit. I knew that voice, when you threatened to throttle me. That was your Alpha voice. Your eyes-glowing-red-and-claws-sliding-out-at-least-an-inch-and-a-half voice."

"You shouldn't be aroused by that."

"Excuse me? Dating a werewolf, here? I think my kinks aren't up for negotiation. Shut up and let me get off on your anger. You sexy beast, you."

Derek snorts. Despite himself.

"Then again, I also get off on your laughter, so. Win-win. You're lucky you have me, Derek. I cheese you off  _and_  make you laugh. Can't get any better than that. You could use some help with the whole emotional spectrum thing."

Derek hears a whisper of movement, on the other end. "Are you touching yourself?"

"Maybe."

"Your hand just slid into your boxers."

"Okay, definitely. Definitively." A muted gasp. "Feels great."

"Yeah?"

"Not as great as when you do it, though."

"What do you like about how I do it?" Derek's been getting hard, as well - since before Stiles even mentioned what he was wearing - and he's fully erect, now. He doesn't unzip himself, though, just rubs a thumb along his fly.

"Oh, I - everything."

"Be specific." Derek slides his zipper down, and slips a hand into his briefs.

"I..." A sound both raspy and moist; Stiles must be licking his lips. "I like your... wrist. The way it - moves against my - when you."

"That isn't specific." Derek curls his fingers in his pubic hair, tugging slightly, the way Stiles does. "That isn't even a complete sentence."

"Screw you, you try talking when your brain cells are frying. You aren't even touching your dick, are you? Cheat. Like with the claws. Which, speaking of, don't think I fell for that blatant lie, all right? 'Cause I didn't."

"Stiles," Derek reminds him, "get back to what we were talking about."

"Fuck," Stiles curses, and now, there's a slickness and a regularity to the stroking. Stiles is leaking pre-come.

Derek remembers what it smells like, remembers -

"I like your. Knuckles, when you - brush them against me, so  _lightly_ , it's - it's almost a  _threat_  - "

"A threat that I won't jack you off, or that I'll hurt you?" Derek wraps a hand around his own erection, at last. Pulls it out of his underwear.

"B-both. I - you're right, I must be crazy to get off on that, but when you do it, it's like you're trying to protect me from your claws, like you're - you're so turned on that if you try to touch me properly, you might injure me - "

"And you like that?"

"Is it true?" Stiles pants. "Is it - why you - is that why?"

"Yes," Derek rumbles, his own cock twitching, and Stiles moans.

"Oh, fuck. Oh,  _fuck_  - "

"How wet are you?"

"Gee, whaddaya  _think_ , Derek - fuck - "

"Bring your palm up to taste it." Damn it, Derek's the one that wants to taste it. "Do it now."

"Mmph." Almost instantaneous. God, the way Stiles follows orders - when it  _suits_  him -

"And back down again. Don't be careful with yourself."

"Like you are?" Another gasp -

"Let me hear it. Let me hear how rough you can get, how - "

"Fuck, yeah."

" - hard you'd want me to fuck you, after. Show me. Tell me - "

"H-hard. So hard, Derek, so  _deep_ , I - " The noises spilling from Stiles's mouth are as frantic as the viciously fast, obscenely sloppy strokes from below; Stiles tends to leak copiously. "The way you are before a full moon, when you're all - and you just  _keep_  fucking me, even after I've come, and you keep fucking me until I'm hard again, until I'm sore, until I'm - " Stiles sobs.

Derek squeezes himself. "Go on."

"Until I'm crying, don't fucking pretend you don't like it, Derek, hell, I like it, I like the way you lick my face, like you're - you're hungry for it."

Salt. Sweet. Stiles's tears -

"And you say these things, and you - you probably think they're words but they're  _not_ , not that close to the full moon, they're just these... snarling, garbled sounds, but I can tell you're trying to comfort me, you're trying to - "

Warm. It's always so warm, inside Stiles. So  _tight_.

"And I love it, I love it all, Derek, I - "

The most beautiful -

"And afterward, you almost don't understand when I ask you to come in my mouth."

Lush lips. Soft. Softer than sin, and that tongue, hotter than hell.

"I have to fucking yank you up, get you in me again, in my mouth, because I love the way you shake and fall apart and just  _keep coming_ , till I feel like I'm drowning, drowning in  _you_ , and I - I miss that, Derek, I miss - "

Derek's gonna come, and he can hear, from Stiles's thready, broken groans, that he is, too.

" - coming all over myself, fuck, I  _miss_  it, shooting all over my chest with you in my mouth, filling me up, my ass empty and _throbbing_  because you've fucked it so hard, and I ache all over, inside and out, my back and my legs, because you've done me so _right_."

Derek's balls tighten; his hips lift into his hand.

"Done me until my entire body feels like a goddamn bruise, but a  _good_  bruise, the kind you wanna keep pressing, later, just to remind yourself how hot it was, how hot it made you when you got it, how - "

Derek's fucking his fist, now, as brutally as he can, hissing at the slight scrape of talons whenever he grows careless on an up-stroke, but that only adds an edge, only - god, when  _Stiles_  grows careless, the edges of his teeth -

" - how hot it makes me when you give them to me, those bruises, and sometimes, I jerk myself off in the shower, after going home, leaving the curtain open so I can see myself in the fucking mirror, see those bruises lined up all along my throat, my thighs."

Fuck.  _Fuck_.

"And I've gotta be quick, or the mirror will steam up, so I just keep my eyes glued to them until I've come." A choked laugh. "I'm  _coming_  - "

"Stiles. I."

"I know. I know, Derek. I'm - m-me, too - "

And then, Stiles is -

He's coming. Derek can hear it in the way Stiles goes utterly quiet, because he's always silent when he comes, save for the high, frantic thrum of his pulse, which is why Derek has to bite him, there, has to  _mark_  -

Derek stifles his own shout when he comes, because he has to  _hear_  that silence, has to know that Stiles is -

Finally, that breath, that deep, shuddering breath.

Stiles is done, he's -

"Stiles," Derek manages, tangled and raw, the name falling out of him like it's been  _shoved_  out, and the last string of come spatters his already-damp tank-top, clinging to him with sweat.

A heady mixture of scents. Strangely incomplete without Stiles's.

Neither of them says anything, for a while. They just listen to each other breathe, not close enough, not pressed skin-to-skin, not  _feeling_  those breaths, but...

Stiles is the first to speak, after a couple of minutes.

Of course he is.

"You kind of suck at this," says Stiles, hazily, and Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes; it'd be pointless, without Stiles there to see him.

He reaches for the tissues, instead. "You came just fine."

"Yeah, I made  _myself_  come. Who was doing all the talking? Me. You didn't even - "

"Maybe I couldn't get a word in, edgewise."

"Oh. Oh, this means war. Next time, you're doin' all the talkin', buddy. Let's see you make up excuses, then."

"You think I can't talk dirty."

"You can't talk, period, but I guess dirty-talk is a subset of general conversational skills, skills you seem to lack generally, so - "

"The next time you're here," Derek says, mildly, "I'm going to fold you in half and fuck you raw, and no matter how much you beg me to come in your mouth, I'm going to come in your ass. And then, I'll flip you over and hold you down by the back of your neck and fuck you until I come inside you, again. And  _then_ , I'll play with your nipples until I'm hard enough for another round, in which I'll make you come untouched, rutting right up against your prostate until you black out. The third time I shoot inside you? You won't even be conscious enough to feel it."

Stiles's throat clicks.

Derek tosses the tissues away.

"Okay, that was just evil." Stiles's voice wobbles. "Also, fuck you."

"That can be arranged," Derek replies, with the same studied mildness.

"You - "

"Good night," says Derek, calmly, and hangs up.

And swears he can still hear Stiles throwing his phone across the room.

Derek isn't smirking.

He's not.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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